Letters from Home
by everytimeyougo
Summary: An envelope emblazoned with a familiar logo. Bold, black printing. A Jersey postmark. Him. A letter...from him. House/Cameron. AU. Takes place several months after Cameron quits in Role Model.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I am a thief and I have stolen House, Cameron and a bit of dialogue from Role Model. I'll return them when I'm done. Maybe.**

**Letters from Home, Chapter 1**

It's a beautiful autumn day, sunny and warm, the mugginess of summer a fading memory. A few brightly coloured falling leaves dance in the slight breeze before landing in the middle of a quiet residential street. A lone female jogger rounds the corner and sprints as she spots her welcoming front yard a couple of blocks ahead. Step, step, step; one, two, three, she counts rhythmically in her head, slowing to a walk when she is a couple of buildings away from home. When she reaches her townhouse she cuts through the grass to her front door and collapses into a heap on the doorstep. Grabbing the bottle of water she had the foresight to leave outside, she twists off the cap and takes a long swallow. It's a little on the warm side after being out of the fridge for awhile, but it hits the spot just the same. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she sets the water down and pulls off her iPod. She's been listening to jazz, something she rarely does anymore as it reminds her of _him_. Today, that was okay somehow. She supposes time is finally giving her the emotional healing that distance had not. She concentrates on slowing her respiration to a normal rate and leans back on her elbows, raising her face to the sun. She's always loved the outdoors and she's pleased to once again live in an area where she can run outside year-round. It's what she likes best about her most recently adopted hometown. She had a treadmill where she used to live, but it just wasn't the same. Of course, her old city had good points of its own, but she tries not to think about them anymore.

She decides she'll go in, grab a shower, and then spend the remainder of her day off in her tiny backyard with a good book. She uses the railing to pull herself up off the steps and does a couple of quick stretches before turning to head inside. As she is about to pull open the door, she notices the corner of an envelope sticking out of the mailbox mounted against the beige siding. An optimist by nature, she never fails to get a little rush of anticipation any time she checks her mail. You never know what you might find – an invitation to a party, a cheque for dividends from some long-forgotten investment, a newsy letter from an old friend. She's pragmatic enough to know that the envelope is most likely a bill - though not an overdue one, she's far to organized for that - but still the hope for something interesting is always there. She opens the mailbox, reaches in, and pulls out not one but several pieces of mail. Opening her door and walking into the small entry way, she flips through the mail envelope by envelope. Bill, flyer, bill, something addressed to her next door neighbour - she'll hand-deliver that later - and another bill. She tosses the mail on the table beside the stairs as she traipses up to the bathroom. She doesn't notice the thin, white envelope addressed in a strong black scrawl that slips out from between the pages of the flyer as the mail lands on the table.

* * *

Humming to herself, the freshly showered young woman descends the stairs, mystery novel in hand, sunglasses perched on the top of her head. She starts for the kitchen, having decided that a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin would be the perfect accompaniment to her book. Spotting the mail on the table she remembers her neighbour's letter and decides to take it to her now before she settles in for a lazy day. She reaches for the pale blue envelope she knows does not belong to her but freezes mid reach when she sees what she missed during her earlier perusal of the mail. An envelope emblazoned with a familiar logo. Bold, black printing. A Jersey postmark. Him. A letter...from him.

* * *

After returning home from her letter delivering errand, she makes her tea and slips though a set of French doors to her small patio. She sets her cup and book down on the little table and settles into her outdoor lounger. She's decided to forgo the muffin for now; her stomach is feeling a little unsettled. She pulls the letter out from between the pages of her novel and brushes her finger over his lettering. Has she ever before seen her name written in his familiar scrawl? She's not sure, but she doesn't think so. Why was he writing to her? How did he even know her address? She smirks a little at that last thought; of course if he wanted to know her address he'd have his methods of finding it. From her personnel file, if in no other way. But why would he want it? They hadn't seen or spoken to each other since the night she'd quit...

_

* * *

_

Months earlier...

_She goes to his apartment after the speech that wasn't. He attempts a joke but the mood in the room is anything but jovial. She says what she came to say._

"_You don't need to worry about firing anyone. I'm leaving."_

"_Why? Is this another noble, self-sacrificing gesture?" he asks. "You trying to protect Foreman?"_

_Was he trying to tell her it would be Foreman and not her? Did it even matter anymore? "No."_

"_So this is just, 'Don't fire me, I quit.'" _

_Can't he see he hasn't left her with any other choice? "I'm protecting myself. You asked me why I like you. You're abrasive and rude, but I figured everything you do, you do it to help people. But I was wrong. You do it because it's right." _

_Near tears, she extends her hand. He glances at her then looks away. She thinks in that moment she has ceased to exist for him. She withdraws her hand. "There are only two ways I can deal with things. One is in my control. That's to leave. Goodbye, House" _

_She walks out the door._

* * *

She'd wasted no time in finding a new job, a new city, a new life. Leaving the previous one behind was easier than she expected. She doesn't miss the town or her tiny apartment or even her co-workers, not really. She does sometimes miss the job, the puzzles, _him_. Her new position doesn't hold the same challenges, but it suits her well enough for the moment. Her new boss is courteous and bland and absolutely no threat to her emotional well-being. She supposes she's happy enough and certainly she has less stress in her life. But now it seems her past has come back to haunt her. She snorts. _Geez Allison, melodramatic much? Just open the damned envelope._ Taking her own advice, she slides a finger under the flap and swiftly separates it from the surface to which it had been glued. She pulls out a single sheet of folded paper. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she unfolds the page. Several seconds pass before she opens her eyes again and reads:

_Cameron,_

_Where's the damned sugar?_

In lieu of signing his name, he has adorned the page using the self-inking stamp bearing his signature that she herself had requisitioned when she first started answering his mail.

She reads the letter again and then for a third time, not quite sure what to think. Her mouth quirks into an unwitting smile. By the time she's read it for the fifth time, she's full-on grinning. She sets the letter down carefully on the table, under her book to keep it from blowing away, and heads into the house in search of stationery.

When she returns, she dashes off a quick reply and folds the cheery yellow paper in thirds. She hesitates just as she is about to enclose the page in the matching envelope. Slowly, she unfolds the paper and considers all the possible implications of what she is thinking of doing. Coming to a decision, she adds a few more words to the bottom of the page, refolds the letter and stuffs it into the envelope. Quickly she seals it before she can change her mind. She addresses the envelope from memory – funny the things that stick with you – and goes inside again, this time in search of her shoes and keys. She'll go and mail it now before she has time to overthink it. After all, he'll most likely never read it. She knows how he is with mail.


	2. Chapter 2

**Letters from Home, Chapter 2**

Wanting nothing more than a few minutes of peace, the doctor ignores his underlings' demands for attention. He enters his office, locks the door, and yanks the blinds shut. He's in pain, but that's nothing new and isn't the reason he's seeking solitude. If pressed for a reason he's not sure he could provide one but fortunately for him, he's reached a stage in life where he no longer has to account for his whims. Not that he ever really did to begin with. He walks over to his desk, intent on plugging himself into his iPod and forgetting about his so-called life for awhile. His cane slips and he clumsily bangs into the corner of his desk on his way by. He curses at the jolt of pain that runs through his bad leg.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

He drops into his chair, yanks open a drawer and rummages around until he finds a bottle of pills. He flips the cover off, quickly swallows more than he should and throws them back in the drawer. Leaning back in his chair, he closes his eyes and waits for the pain to revert to a tolerable level. When he finally opens his eyes again, the first thing he sees is a mess of envelopes, journals and other papers on the floor. They must have fallen off his desk when he bumped into it. He contemplates leaving them for the janitorial staff to clean up, but if he does that he knows they'll just end up back on his desk. He rolls his chair towards the wastebasket, grabs it, and rolls over to the mess on the carpet. Leaning over, he seizes random handfuls of paper and stuffs them in the wastebasket without even looking at them. Because of his inattention, he almost misses it: the sunny yellow envelope addressed to him in a familiar loopy handwriting. He rescues it from the wastebasket and rolls back over to his desk, abandoning his clean-up efforts. He's surprised that she'd answered him. Even when he was dropping the note he'd written her in the mailbox, he was almost certain she wouldn't respond. After the night she'd quit he was pretty sure she hated him, and of course she had no idea he'd tried to make it right…

_

* * *

_

Months ago…

_He struggles as he climbs the stairs of her apartment building. It's just his luck she lives in a building with no elevator; maybe he should have just called. No, he thinks, he owes her this much effort at least. And probably then some. Reaching her door, he raps on it with his cane. Nothing. He bangs a few more times, getting increasingly louder, before losing patience completely and shouting, "Cameron, open the damned door."_

_He hears a door open behind him and whirls around ready to take his frustration out on whatever poor soul has the misfortune to be nearby. He opens his mouth to demand information on Cameron's whereabouts but catches himself when the __neighbour__ turns out to be a tiny, silver-haired, elderly woman. He can't yell at her; she looks like his grandmother. Damn it._

"_If you're looking for Allison," the neighbour says, "She doesn't live there anymore. She moved out a few days ago." She cocks her head to one side and looks up him. "You're Allison's boss, aren't you? She told me all about you; that you were tall and handsome and had beautiful blue eyes. I see she wasn't exaggerating."_

"_Ah, right. I am. Her boss, that is. Though I suspect it was this that gave me away..." he says, waving his cane, "...more so than my eyes."_

"_Nooo, I don't think so. I don't remember her ever mentioning you were disabled," the woman responds after appearing to give the matter some consideration. "I'm surprised she didn't tell you she was moving. She thinks very highly of you. And..." She looks up and down the hallway, ensuring they're alone. "...I suspect she may have a bit of a crush on you," she finishes, her voice dropping to a whisper._

_He chuckles. "You don't say. You don't happen to know where she moved to, do you?" He's positive she can't have gone far. Probably just decided to downsize a bit since she thinks she's unemployed. _

"_No, I'm afraid not. All she said was that she thought she'd go someplace warmer. I'm not sure _she_ even knew where she was going. She did tell you she was leaving her job, didn't she? She seemed like such a responsible girl."_

_He feels as though he's been punched in the stomach. She's gone? Didn't she trust him to fix this mess? A voice in his head answers: Why would she? The whole thing was your fault to start with. The voice sounds suspiciously like his best friend. He mentally tells it to shut its trap._

"_Yeah. Yeah, she did. Thanks for your help." He turns and heads back the way he came. He hears the neighbour's door close as he begins his arduous descent down the stairs._

_A few days later he breaks into his boss's office and goes through her files looking for a forwarding address. As he scribbles the address he finds on a piece of paper, he tells himself he only needs it in case he ever has a question for her about a previous case. She was good at remembering the details that didn't make the chart. The human interest stuff._

* * *

He'd put her address away and carried on. After a few weeks of being a dysfunctional team of three, he allowed himself to be coerced into hiring a replacement. He chose someone nothing at all like her: a short, balding plastic surgeon named Taub who was nearly has old as he was. Cuddy had half-heartedly pushed him to hire another woman but gave in easily when he accused her of reverse sexism. He knew she thought he was too attached to the memory of his lost immunologist to replace her with anyone remotely similar. He didn't try to convince her otherwise; she could think whatever she wanted if it got him his own way. Actually, he wanted a man because he thought life would be easier without another overly emotional female on his team.

Looking back, however, that may have been a mistake. It's a sad state of affairs indeed, when _he_ is the only one left who'll advocate for the patient. It was after one such instance that he inadvertently came across the little piece of paper bearing her address. He wondered if she'd forgotten all about him; wondered if he still had any hold on her at all. He had to know.

* * *

He looks down at the letter in his hands, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. So, she'd responded. _Interesting_. Leave it to her to have stationery the colour of sunflowers. He lifts the envelope to his nose and sniffs the paper. It smells like…paper. He snorts. "Idiot. What did you expect it to smell like?" he mumbles half aloud. _Her_, his mind whispers back. He shakes his head to clear that unwelcome thought, rips the edge off the envelope and pulls out the paper inside. After unfolding it, he reads:

_Dr. House,_

_I took it with me. Too much sugar is bad for you._

_Best regards,_

_Allison Cameron, MD_

_PS I miss you too._

She misses him too?! What the fuck? He doesn't miss her; he'd just been testing her. To see if she'd answer. To see if she still cared. That's all. No missing. No missing at all. He crumples the page up and draws back his arm, about to throw it in the waste basket. But he doesn't; he pauses and lowers his arm. He pulls out the drawer of his desk, the one where he keeps his scotch and his Game Boy, and tosses the crumpled ball of paper in there instead. After closing the drawer, he gets up and leaves his office. He's already directing derisive comments at his team before he's even fully out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Letters from Home, Chapter 3**

Damn it, she's going to be late. She wrenches open her front door and runs straight for the stairs, hopping first on her right foot, then on her left as she removes her high heels and tosses them aside in her haste. She's got a date tonight, her first since moving to this city, and she's quite excited about it. It's a blind date actually, with the cousin of a co-worker. A co-worker she doesn't particularly care for, if she's honest, but that doesn't necessarily mean she won't like her cousin. He sounds like a great guy. According to Judy, the mildly annoying nurse, he's in his late twenties, college-educated and self-employed. She's been shown a picture of him, and while he's not her usual physical type, a date is a date and she's tired of sitting home alone every night. And besides, dating someone _not_ her usual type probably isn't a bad idea. It's not like her usual type worked out so well for her the last time...

_Stop it, Allison. Don't think about him. Not now_.

She drops her purse and keys on the table beside the staircase as she hurries up to her room. She glances at the digital clock by her bed on her way to the ensuite bathroom. Six o'clock. She's only got an hour to get ready so she'd better get started. She really wants to make a good impression.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later she's coming back down the stairs, freshly showered, blow-dried and made-up. They're going to dinner at a small pub-style restaurant so she's dressed somewhat casually in dark-washed jeans and a black, lace trimmed blouse. She's completed the look by putting her hair up and adding large silver hoop earrings. Her black ankle boots add several inches to her height.

She walks over to her front door, opens it, and pokes her head out, desperate for a little fresh air after the steam of the bathroom and the heat of the blow dryer. After a couple of deep breaths, she reaches into her mailbox to grab the mail she was in too much of a hurry to pick up on her way in. She heads back inside, and closes the door, only then glancing down at the lone envelope in her hand. She freezes. It's from _him_. Unbelievable, just un-fucking-believable. He couldn't have had better timing if he tried.

Slowly shaking her head, she wanders from the hall into the living room and sinks onto the sofa. It's been two months since she received the first letter from him. Two months since she wrote back. The first month, she'd rushed home from work every day, certain that _this_ was going to be the day she'd find another letter. But she never did. By the beginning of the second month, she'd pretty much given up on receiving a response. Probably no one was sorting his mail for him and her letter had ended up unceremoniously dumped in the garbage along with dozens of other unopened envelopes. Or maybe someone _was_ sorting his mail for him, but they had no idea who she was and thus they had sorted her right into the trash. Then there was the equally likely third possibility: that he'd read her letter but simply chose not to respond for whatever reason. Or for no reason at all. She preferred to think it was one of the first two options. Nevertheless, checking the mail had still been the first thing she did whenever she arrived home. Until tonight. Tonight she actually had something else to look forward to. And so, of course, tonight is the night she finds a letter from him. Why does he keep doing this to her? Just when she's moving on, just when she's healing, he always has to make his presence known. Well screw him! Fuming, she hops up from the sofa and stalks into the kitchen to throw the envelope into the trashcan under the sink. As she walks back into the living room, the doorbell rings. She shoves her former boss from her mind and goes to meet her date.

* * *

Three interminably long hours later, she's walking back through her front door, the wind completely gone from her sails. The evening had been an unmitigated disaster. Apparently she needs to relearn blind date code. She'd forgotten that college-educated didn't necessarily mean college-graduated. In this case it meant he'd once registered for a junior college course. She was unclear on whether he'd actually attended any of the classes. Not to mention, it seems that self-employed can be synonymous with unemployed. She personally doesn't think pet-sitting for relatives qualifies as an actual business for anyone over the age of sixteen. Damn it, she should have known better. This was going to make things so uncomfortable at work. Judy's just the type to spread nasty rumours out of some misguided sense of loyalty to her cousin.

She can't help but wonder if the guy would have stood a chance even if he had been someone she could have liked. Despite her best efforts, she'd spent the better part of the evening comparing him to House. House's tall, lean good looks; this guy's pale, pudgy insipidness. House's strong, commanding voice; this guy's nasally whine. House's determination to do what he believes to be _right;_ this guy's tales of cheating seemingly everyone he'd every met. House's endearing disbelief that she could like him; this guy's bland assumption that she would. No, she's sure she'd only been comparing them because this guy was a jerk. And to top it off, he'd practically attacked her when she tried to get in the door without kissing him goodnight. Thank god her older brother had taught her a few tricks for getting away from octopus men when she was still a teenager.

She shrugs out of her jacket and hangs it up in the closet before bending down to unzip and pull off her ankle boots. She meanders into the kitchen and fills up the kettle, thinking that a hot cup of tea was definitely in order. And maybe something to eat, since not even the food had been good tonight. Her thoughts take a self-pitying turn as she rummages through the pantry for a teabag and some comfort food. Why did she ever move here? Just because she'd quit her job didn't mean she'd had to quit her whole damned life. At least in Princeton she had friends. Here...nobody. Tears start to form in her eyes and she sniffles a little. She's just so lonely; maybe she should get a cat... She pulls a box of chocolate chip cookies from the pantry just as the kettle whistles. She unplugs it and pours hot water over the teabag she's dropped into her favourite red mug. She's just not in the mood to make it properly in a teapot; her grandmother would be cringing. Oddly, this thought cheers her up somewhat. She swishes the teabag around a bit before fishing it out with a spoon, opening the cupboard door and throwing it in the trashcan under the sink. It lands directly on top of the piece of mail she'd thrown in there earlier. She looks suspiciously at the envelope for a moment, before sighing, liberating it from the trash, and blotting the wet spot from the teabag with a paper towel. She takes her tea, her cookies and the letter over to the kitchen table and sits down. "All right House," she says to the empty room, "What now?" She removes the letter from the envelope and reads:

_Cameron,_

_I do a lot of things that are bad for me. Sugar's the least of my worries. Rescue any puppies lately?_

_Gregory House, MD_

_PS Who says I miss you? Your aesthetic value, maybe. Your replacement is at nowhere near your level of hotness._

Rescue any puppies lately? Is that House-speak for "How are you?" She grins. Maybe the mail gods weren't trying to screw with her after all. Maybe fate just knew that tonight would be a good time for a reminder that there's someone out there who cares about her, no matter how terrible he is at showing it. She gets up from the table to find her stationery, already composing her response in her head.


	4. Chapter 4

**_

* * *

_**

A/N: Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! I am thankful for all the great House/Cam fanfic people out there!

**Letters from Home, Chapter 4**

He enters his apartment, drops his backpack just inside the door and hobbles straight for the couch, acknowledging the other occupant of the room with a glance. Sitting down, he fills a glass of scotch from the bottle conveniently located on the coffee table and takes a large swallow. He can feel some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate as soon as the fiery liquid slides down his throat. Only after downing the rest of the glass and filling it again, does he reach down and pull off his sneakers. He turns sideways and shifts around until he's half-sitting, half-laying on the couch. He reaches over and grasps the corner of the coffee table, hauling it towards him until his glass of scotch is within easy reach, not even cringing at the sound of the heavy table scratching the hardwood floor. His companion, however, does not appreciate the noise and glares at him with half-closed eyes.

It had been a bitch of a day. He'd lost not one, but two patients: a mother and her infant daughter who had been suffering from the same inscrutable disease. The husband and father had refused to allow an autopsy to be performed, so it looked like it was going to be another case for the unsolved file. He fucking hates when that happens. He picks up the remote, flicks on the TV and tries to distract himself with some stupid reality show. Stupid really is the only word for it, but at least the girls are hot. The brunette one looks a little like Cameron if he squints. Hmm, Cameron. That reminds him... He arches his back at bit to allow himself access to the hip pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a folded piece of yellow paper. Unfolding it, he lays it flat on his left thigh and tries to smooth out the deep creases in the paper that had resulted from his folding and unfolding it several times over the course of the day. He snorts. The day...try the week, since that's how long he's been carrying the damned thing around. He reads it again, although there really is no need to since he's long since had it memorized.

_House,_

_Nope, no puppies rescued. I did recently help my next door neighbour coax her cat out of a tree. Does that count? So my replacement isn't as hot as me huh? What happened, you go for brains over beauty this time? Tell me about her._

_Cameron_

_PS Who says you miss me? You're writing to me, aren't you?_

This second letter had shown up on his desk Tuesday morning. He'd been expecting it and had therefore gotten into the habit of flipping through his mail every day before tossing most of it in the trash. He may have been surprised that she'd written back the first time, but this time he _knew_ she would. If anyone is going to end this little game between them, it's going to have to be him. He honestly isn't sure why he hasn't already.

He'd pulled out his desk drawer and looked at her first letter nearly every day for two months. And nearly every day for two months he'd resisted writing back. She missed him, or thought she did anyway. And now she thought he missed her too. He'd only be leading her on if he wrote back. It was in everybody's best interest if he did _not_ write back. Including his own. The last thing he needed was for her to start thinking there was something between them and show up here expecting something from him.

He's not sure what happened to make him change his mind.

Actually scratch that. He _hadn't_ changed his mind. He'd ended up writing a little note back to her after one (or three) too many Vicodin, and then before he knew it, he'd mailed it and it was too late. And now she's written back. Again. So now it's his turn. Again.

He's so screwed.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" he asks his companion. He doesn't expect an answer and he doesn't receive one. He throws the letter on the coffee table and picks up his drink instead. Maybe if he ignores it long enough it will just go away.

* * *

A couple of hours and several glasses of scotch later and he's half-dozing on the couch, his eyes closed and his thoughts wandering every which way as they tend to do when his body is ready for sleep but his mind just isn't. He starts off considering possible diagnoses for his case from today. He comes up with a couple of new possibilities but knows there's no way of testing his theories now. The bodies have already been released. Breaking and entering a funeral home is going a little far, even for him, though he does consider it. If he could get his team to do it...

He shifts slightly to a more comfortable position, throwing one arm up over and around his head.

His team. What a useless bunch of idiots. They probably would do it too. Since Vogler, Chase has crawled so far up his ass that he's practically coming out of his mouth. He'd do anything he's told. Foreman would argue just for the sake of arguing, but in the end he'd go. Not knowing the answer would be bugging Foreman almost as much as it was bugging him. And in the final analysis, he wouldn't really give a shit about the family's wishes. And Taub, well he was still pretty new. If the other two went along with it, he most likely would too, whether he objected or not. Not that he probably would object since he was basically just another Foreman. Why the devil he thought he needed two of them he'll never know...

He twitches from a sudden feeling of falling. Hypnic jerk, his ever-helpful mind supplies.

Now if _she_ was here, _she_ would object. Strenuously. She'd probably go to Cuddy to stop them. Actually no, she wouldn't need to because he wouldn't be able to convince the others to go along with his nefarious plan if she was there to argue against it. They'd listen to her. Hell, _he_ might even listen to her. Not that he'd let her know that.

Jesus. Now he's gone and done it. Now that she's back in his head, he probably won't be able to get her out until he falls fully asleep. Maybe not even then. He drifts back to the last time he saw her. She looked so sad, standing there in his doorway.

"I was sad."

His eyes fly open. She's sitting beside him on the couch wearing the same blue shirt she'd been wearing that night.

"What are you doing here?"

She ignores him. "I didn't want to leave. But you didn't do anything to stop me. It's your fault I'm gone."

"But I did try. I went to your apartment to make you come back. You had already moved, but I did try."

"Too little, too late. Why'd you let me leave? Why wouldn't you shake my hand?"

"I...I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Why?"

"Because if you stayed, something would have happened between us. I was resisting, but I knew I couldn't hold out forever. It never would've worked so it was better for you to just go."

"Why wouldn't it have worked?"

"Because you didn't really want me. Not the real me. You just wanted a project. Someone you could fix."

"How did I describe you?"

"What?"

"My neighbour knew you from my description. How did I describe you? As a cripple?"

"No. She knew me by my eyes..."

"Right." She smiles enigmatically and stands.

"Cameron, wait..." He reaches for her, but she's already at the door.

"I am waiting."

* * *

He jerks awake and looks around quickly. He's alone. Well, mostly alone. He swings his legs off the couch and onto the floor as he tries to remember whether there's any blank paper in the house.

"I suppose I could tell her about you..." he says aloud, looking over at his sleeping companion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Letters from Home, Chapter 5**

She'd only had to wait two weeks for a reply this time. Ever aware of his mercurial nature, she wonders if that's a good sign or a bad one. Cautious, but hopeful, she unfolds his latest letter and reads:

_Cameron,_

_Yeah, the cat counts. Funny story…I have a cat now. Or maybe I should say a cat has me. Snuck in one day when I was bringing stuff in from the car. Damned thing won't leave. Stop laughing, I'm serious. It bites if I take it anywhere near the door. Good company though. I always did like animals better than most people. _

_Your replacement's a guy. I went for brains __and__ beauty last time. This time, not so much. Picture Foreman as a short, balding, Jewish guy and you've got Taub._

_House_

_PS Yeah, I guess I am._

_PPS You want me to stop?_

She delights in the unexpected compliment, but even more in the implication that he intends to keep writing as long as she doesn't object.

* * *

He waits until he's alone before pulling the envelope out of the drawer where he'd hidden it as Cuddy was barging into his office.

_House, _

_Ha, I never would have taken you for a cat person. A grizzly bear person, maybe. Kidding. Mostly._

_So Diagnostics is an all male department now? It must be very annoying for you to have to leave the office whenever you feel the need to sexually harass someone. How is Cuddy holding up under the additional strain?_

_Allison_

_PS No, I don't want you to stop._

_Good, _he thinks. _I need this. Maybe we both do._

_

* * *

_

Allison,

_A grizzly bear would be so cool! I don't know how well it would go over with my landlord, though. I'll have to settle for a cat with the personality of a grizzly bear. In fact, I've decided to name him Grizzly_

_I've actually transferred your allotment of harassment to Chase as he is both nearer by and more feminine than Cuddy. He's holding up quite well. I think he enjoys it. After all, I am adorable, as you well know._

_House_

She opens the drawer in her nightstand and adds this most recent letter to the others. It's an eclectic collection to be sure. This particular one is written on a prescription form belonging to one Dr. James Wilson.

_

* * *

_

House,

_Poor Chase. You're such an ass. Good to know some things never change._

_How long have you had that cat and you're only naming it now?_

_I had a case last week that might have interested you_. _Right-sided sensory changes __and sudden motor weakness followed by fever, alteration of consciousness and aphasia. Differential diagnosis, Doctor?_

_Allison_

He folds the letter in quarters and stuffs it back in his pocket. He's oddly proud of the fact that he's managed to read this one only three times today.

_

* * *

_

Allison,

_He had a name before. But Grizzly is better than Damned Cat._

_Calling me names and reciting symptoms? Are you flirting with me, Dr Cameron? Good to know some things never change. What did the MRI show?_

_Greg_

This letter had shown up only a week after she'd mailed her last one. She grins; she knew he wouldn't be able to resist a DDX game.

* * *

And so it continues. Each letter she sends is like a prayer. Each one she receives, a blessing. She's almost – _almost_ – been able to let go of the fear that one day he'll just stop responding.

She feels she's come to know him so much better over the course of the year they've been corresponding. The short, joking letters that began their relationship increase both in length and depth until he is sharing with her details of his life that she's sure she would never have learned if she'd stayed in Princeton. Fascinating stories from a childhood spent all over the world, interspersed with hints about the troubled nature of his relationship with his father. A brief, factual description of the circumstances surrounding his infarction and subsequent surgery followed by a couple of emotion-laden sentences about the aftermath. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes. He confides his occasional fears that his drug use is getting out of hand and expresses his worries about his health.

As time goes on and her belief that she won't be mocked grows, she begins sharing details from her own past. Her often difficult childhood and turbulent adolescence. Her brief marriage and its tragic end. Her guilt over her feelings for her husband's best friend. Her concerns that she's not cut out for the career she's chosen. Her loneliness.

But it's not all angst and soul-bearing. She also takes pleasure in reading about his day-to-day existence – hospital gossip, happenings on his favourite TV shows, and tales of his feline roommate's antics. In turn she shares with him the small details of her life – stories about her job and her co-workers, books she's reading, and her volunteer work at an animal shelter. _Again with the puppies, Allison. It was you who inspired me, Greg._

They tease and flirt and try to out-diagnose each other.

The only topics they don't discuss – the proverbial elephants in the corner – are why she ever left him in the first place. And why he let her.

At first it surprises her when he asks her about a person or event she'd written about several letters ago, but eventually she gets the sense that maybe he reads and rereads her letters as closely and as often as she does his.

It scares her to contemplate how much she's come to rely on his letters just to get her through the day. Scares her and exhilarates her. And it scares her even more that it's become _not enough_. More and more lately, she's been craving the sound of his voice. Tonight, she's contemplating calling him, and not for the first time. She's already talked herself out of it on more than one occasion, worried about the reception she might get.

What if he doesn't want to talk to her? What if, despite all evidence to the contrary, the letters are just a game to him? What if she calls and he's not alone?

Or what if he's missing the sound of her voice too?

She sighs and picks up the phone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Letters from Home, Chapter 6**

He sits on his couch watching a hockey game on TV, drinking a beer, and occasionally cursing harshly enough to draw the attention of the feline dozing on the back of couch. After one especially loud exclamation of annoyance, the eighteen pound cat jumps off the back of the couch and onto his human's lap, staying just long enough to make his displeasure known to the man's bad leg before continuing on to the bedroom.

"Yeah, you'd better run," the doctor calls after him while rubbing his thigh.

The cat's ears prick back as he slows his pace to a meander.

"Poached cat on toast for breakfast tomorrow," the man proclaims loudly before turning his attention back to the television.

There comes a knock at his door. "Come in," he shouts.

The locked doorknob rattles. Cursing under his breath this time, he limps over, throws the door open and limps back over the couch.

"Hello to you too," his guest says.

"You're late," he responds. "Game's already started. Sit down and shut up. Actually, first get me another beer. Then sit down and shut up."

Undeterred by his friend's brusque demeanour, the other man grins and heads toward the kitchen.

* * *

"Well, that sucked." He flicks off the television and looks over at his companion, impatiently tapping his fingers against the arm of the couch.

"Am I to surmise that now that the Devils have been thoroughly slaughtered, you'd like me to leave?"

"Can't get anything by you, can I Jimmy?" he says before tossing back the last of his beer.

"Fine, I was going to leave anyway." The oncologist stands and starts for the door but stops and turns around halfway there. "Hey, did you return that DVD from last weekend yet? The video store keeps calling me."

He merely rolls his eyes in a "what do _you_ think" fashion before picking up the remote, flicking the television back on and flipping though the channels.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, his friend asks, "Where is it? I'll return it on my way home."

"On a table," he says, gesturing vaguely. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the younger man walk over the nearest table and start moving papers around looking for the DVD case before he refocuses on his channel surfing.

"Whoa, what's this?" his friend asks gleefully. He looks up in time to see the other man waving a sunflower-yellow envelope in the air.

"Hey! Give me that!" he growls, jumping up and moving more quickly than he has in years to try and grab the letter back.

His friend darts backwards while pulling the letter out of the envelope. "Well well, it looks to be from Allison Cameron. I've often wondered how she's been doing," the man says with a grin.

"Wilson," he almost pleads. "Give it back."

His friend looks at him with a quizzical expression on his face before handing the letter and envelope back. "Don't worry. I'm not you; I'm not going to invade your privacy. So, how long has this been going on?"

"A year or so," he mumbles.

"A...a year or so! And you didn't tell me!"

He can only shrug and look down at the letter. It seems almost tainted now that someone else knows about it.

"That explains a great deal, actually. I thought I detected a slight spring in your limp lately. Could the lovely Dr. Cameron be the cause?"

Ignoring the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he rolls his eyes. "A spring in my limp? Are you on crack?" he demands.

"No, I'm serious. You've been...I don't know...happier isn't the word. Less miserable, perhaps? And I'm not the only one who's noticed. Cuddy said something about it the other day. Just wait 'til I tell her it's because you've got a _girlfriend_."

"What are we twelve? I don't have a _girlfriend. _I... She... It's none of your goddamned business. Go the fuck home, Wilson. I'm not talking about this."

His friend holds his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm going. Anyway, you don't have to talk about it. The fact that you've kept it a secret for this long tells me all I need to know. She's important to you, House." He makes for the door, noticing and snagging the overdue video on his way.

"Or maybe she's so _unimportant_ that it didn't even occur to me to mention her," he counters loudly, sounding lame even to his own ears.

"Whatever," the oncologist replies, giving a wave before closing the front door behind him.

_Goddamn it_, he thinks. _He's not going to let this go that easily._

Limping back over to the couch, letter in hand, he sits down, all the while wondering whether his friend could be right. How attached has he become to Allison's letters? To Allison herself? And when the hell had he started thinking of her as Allison and not Cameron? He unfolds the letter and reads a few random lines of her cheerful prose. Usually her letters never fail to make him smile, but he's not smiling now. Up until tonight he'd managed to carefully ignore the implications of his growing dependence on her letters. As long as no one knew about it, as long is it was just between them, it didn't seem quite...real. But now he no longer has that luxury. Wilson will be quizzing him about her, about _them_, every chance he gets. Now he's forced to be realistic. _No good can come from this. If I'm getting attached, no doubt she is as well and she shouldn't be wasting her time with the likes of me. If I can't even talk to my best friend about her without panicking, how the hell am I ever going to be able to give her anything outside of a make-believe relationship that's all on paper. Maybe it's best to just put an end to this thing now._

His phone chooses that moment to ring, startling him out of his brooding. He picks up the cordless phone from the coffee table and checks the Caller-ID. _Unknown Name, Long Distance_. He considers ignoring what is most likely a telemarketer, but decides he could use a distraction and maybe someone to yell at. He pushes the talk button and lifts the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Letters from Home, Chapter 7**

She holds her breath as she listens to the phone ring in her ear. She's not sure whether to hope he'll answer or hope he won't. One ring...two...three...

"Yeah," he finally answers, in the same deep, gruff tone she remembers so well. The sound of his voice brings to mind such a jumble of thoughts and memories and emotions, all at once, that she has to remind herself to speak.

"House? It's me...Allison." She's not sure why, but she can't quite bring herself to call him Greg. She's been beginning her letters to him that way for months, but saying it aloud is...different. As several long moments pass with no response, she begins to hope that they'll be disconnected somehow as anything would be better than this uncomfortable limbo. She can hear him breathing. _Isn't he going to say anything?_ "Are you there?"

He coughs. "Uh, yeah. I'm here."

"So, ah...how are you?" she asks. _Was this a mistake?_

"Not bad," he replies in a monotone.

"Am I interrupting something?" _Maybe he has someone there._

"No. Wilson was here watching hockey. He just left. I was about to go to bed. You know, work tomorrow and all that." In her mind's eye, she can see him fiddling with his cane and staring at the floor in the way he does when he's uncomfortable.

"Yes, because I know what a stickler you are about getting to work bright and early," she teases. _Come on, relax._

"Right."

She sighs. "Right. Um, House? Is everything okay?" _Obviously not._

"Fine. Just tired. Like I said, I was about to go to bed."

"Are you sure?" she presses, ignoring the warning apparent in his voice. "You don't sound very happy to hear from me." _Please talk to me._

"Happy?" he asks sharply. "Who do you think you're talking to, Cameron? What the hell do you want from me?"

_Definitely a mistake. _"I don't know...a conversation?"

"I don't do conversations. Figured you'd know that by now."

"But the letters..."

"Meant nothing," he interrupts.

"Oh. I...ah...I'm sorry. I thought we had something," she says quickly, still desperately trying to find the magic words that will turn him back into the man she's gotten to know over the last year.

"Well, you thought wrong."

"I...okay," she says softly. "Sorry to have bothered you." She starts to add that it won't happen again when a click in her ear indicates he's already hung up. Slowly, she pulls the phone away from her ear and stares down at the still glowing number pad. _What have I done?_

She pushes the end button on the phone and sets it down on the coffee table, shaking her head sadly. Why does she always have to push the issue with him? Every time he attempts to give her a little piece of himself, she has to try and take more. The letters didn't mean nothing to him. She knows they didn't. She should have been patient, let things progress on his timetable. He would have made the next move when he was ready. Hasn't she learned that lesson yet? She hugs herself, fighting back tears, and thinks back to when she used to work for him. She remembers a seemingly offhand invitation that could have been a beginning of _something,_ if only she hadn't tried to force him into defining his motives.

_Do you like monster trucks?_

_I don't know what they are._

_Right. I got two tickets. Friday night._

_You asking me to go with you?_

_Sure. Sounds good._

_Like a…date? _

_Exactly. Except for the "date" part._

She gets up from her spot on the couch and goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. They'd had a good time that night, but it had ended on a distinctly un-date-like note. He hadn't even accompanied her to her door, effectively short-circuiting any chance of a goodnight kiss. She wonders what might have happened if she hadn't forced him into declaring it _not a date_ before it even began.

The whistle of the kettle brings her back to the present. As she pours water into the mug she doesn't recall getting out of the cupboard, she remembers an awkward scene in a hallway.

_People… dismiss me. Because I'm a woman, because I'm pretty, because I'm not aggressive. My opinions shouldn't be rejected just because people don't like me._

_They like you. Everyone likes you._

_Do you? I have to know. _

_No._

Of course _him_ liking her was implicit in the _everyone_ liking her. She can see that now, but at the time she'd selfishly wanted...needed...him to spell it out for her. Of course, it had backfired. His walls were still too high then for that sort of emotional honesty. She guesses they are still too high even now, despite the progress they'd made on paper.

She takes her red mug of tea and goes upstairs to her bedroom, setting the mug on the nightstand while she prepares for bed. Even the one time he'd voluntarily brought up the subject of _them_, she couldn't just follow his lead...

_You like me. Why? _

_That's kind of a sad question. _

_Just trying to figure out what makes you tick. I am not warm and fuzzy and you are basically a stuffed animal made by grandma. _

_I don't think that's why you're asking. I think it's because of the speech. _

_Oh God, don't try and pick me apart. _

_Then why are you asking? What do you want to hear? _

That time he'd simply left the room. This time he'd hung up on her. She doubts there will ever be a next time.

She opens the drawer in her nightstand and pulls out the stack of letters. Setting them down beside her tea, she pulls back her sheet and comforter, arranges her pillows and climbs into bed. Tonight she'll indulge herself. She'll reread all his letters. She'll smile, she'll laugh, she'll cry. She'll reminisce about the time she spent in his orbit and she'll mourn the loss of the future she'd imagined having with him. She'll mourn the loss of a friend. She'll curse herself for ruining it and she'll curse him for not being someone other than the person he is.

Tomorrow, she'll pack up the letters and put them somewhere out of sight until the time comes that she can read them and be more happy than sad. She'll do the same with her feelings and memories; bury them somewhere deep inside her heart until they don't hurt so much. Tomorrow, she'll carry on. She'll be a little more broken than she was before, a little emptier inside, but she'll still be alive. She'll get through it. She has before.

_**A/N: Don't worry, it doesn't end here!**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Letters from Home, Chapter 8**

A car passes outside the doctor's apartment, breaking the late night silence. He watches as headlights slide across his bedroom wall until they fade into the night and once more the only light in the room comes from a digital alarm clock glowing 2:14 am. He's lying on his bed, stretched out on his back with one arm thrown over his head, not even close to falling asleep. His large, grey and white cat is curled up next to his hip, fast asleep and every so often he reaches down and strokes the feline's silky fur to bring about the comforting sound of purring. He doesn't think he's ever felt so lost in all his life. Even when the woman he had thought to be the love of his life had left him, he hadn't felt like this. That time there had been some warning and enough bitterness between the two of them by that point that some small measure of relief was mixed in with all his regret. This time, everything had gone to hell so fast that he hadn't seen it coming, hadn't had time to steel himself against the emptiness he was feeling now. It's as if some sadistic bastard has stolen his cane and left him with no way to walk. Perhaps ironically, the sadistic bastard in this analogy is him. He's the only one he can blame for allowing himself to get so attached to her. He'd come to rely on her letters; they're as much of a necessity to him now as his cane, as much an addiction as his painkillers, and that's no basis for a relationship. She deserves better. He tells himself again that he did the right thing, though maybe, probably, okay definitely, in the wrong way. It doesn't help. The phone conversation from hours ago replays through his mind on a never-ending loop.

* * *

"_Yeah?" he says by way of a greeting, trying to decide whether to screw with the expected telemarketer or just to start yelling in order to relieve the anxiety his friend's prying had caused._

"_House? It's me...Allison."_

_His heart leaps into his throat and he almost drops the phone. It's her. For a moment all he feels is pure, unadulterated joy at the sound of her voice. For a moment. But all too soon, he comes crashing back to earth as he remembers his thought processes from moments ago. The need to end this thing, whatever it is, in order to save her from herself and from him, begins to reassert itself. 'Do it now, get it over with' wars with 'Wait, think this through.'_

"_Are you there?" Her voice in his ear reminds him of the need to speak._

_He coughs. "Uh, yeah. I'm here." _

"_So, ah...how are you?" she asks. _

"_Not bad." Completely fucked up, thank you for asking._

"_Am I interrupting something?" _

"_No. Wilson was here watching hockey. He just left. I was about to go to bed. You know, work tomorrow and all that." Thinking it through wins out. Just get her off the phone. Don't do this right now._

"_Yes, because I know what a stickler you are about getting to work bright and early," _

"_Right."_

"_Right. Um, House? Is everything okay?" _

"_Fine. Just tired. Like I said, I was about to go to bed." Leave it, Allison. Please._

"_Are you sure? You don't sound very happy to hear from me." _

_That one innocent accusation hits him with all the force of a sledgehammer. He has opened up to her more than he has with anyone in years…maybe ever. It was easy when she was only a piece of paper in front of him. But now she's calling, like they're old friends. Like maybe they're even more. She wants him to be happy to hear from her. It's all too much. Words erupt from his mouth of their own volition. _

"_Happy?" he asks sharply. "Who do you think you're talking to, Cameron? What the hell do you want from me?" _

"_I don't know...a conversation?"_

"_I don't do conversations. Figured you'd know that by now."_

"_But the letters..."_

"_Meant nothing," _

"_Oh. I...ah...I'm sorry. I thought we had something." He can hear the plea in her voice._

"_Well, you thought wrong." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. _

_His eyes dart around the room, looking for salvation, but there is none to be found. What the fuck has he done? _

_As if from a million miles away he hears her speaking, apologizing for bothering him, but her words don't really even register. 'You thought wrong' and 'meant nothing' echo through his mind. He'd give anything to recall those words, but he can't. So he does the only thing he can do. He hangs up before he can do any more damage. _

_Setting the phone down, he picks up a beer bottle from the coffee table and lifts it to his mouth. Upon discovering that it's empty, he hurls it at the wall with a curse._

* * *

Giving up on sleep for the time being, he struggles into a seated position and stretches out his arm to switch on the lamp beside his bed. Blinking at the sudden brightness, he rubs his eyes before swinging his legs off the bed and planting his feet on the floor. He tosses back a couple of painkillers from the bottle on the nightstand and then leans over to grab his jeans off the floor. He needs a change of scenery; there must be something that needs doing at the office. There always is now that she's gone. As he dresses, he wonders if he can still fix this mess, in any way repair some of the damage his harsh words have caused. He wonders if he wants to. His cat glares at his back as he leaves the room before moving to settle into the warm spot he's left behind.

* * *

A short bike ride later and he's arriving at the office at just before 3:00 am, fully intending on catching up on his paperwork. Contrary to popular belief, he does know how to chart, he just prefers not to. But when he sits down at his desk and pulls out a drawer in search of a pen he finds himself unable to ignore the stack of letters he finds there instead. He pulls them out of the drawer, leans back in his chair putting his feet up on his desk, and starts to read. Only after he's read through them all twice does the knot in his stomach begin to loosen and finally he relaxes enough to fall asleep in his chair.

He dreams of sugar and grizzly bears and a pretty brunette in a blue shirt. There are tears in her eyes.

He wakes up knowing he has to do _something_.


	9. Chapter 9

**

* * *

**

Letters from Home, Chapter 9

She's running again. It's a good sign, she thinks, that she had enough energy to get up today and reach for her sneakers before depression could drag her back into her warm bed. It's not that she wasn't tempted to give in once again to the melancholy of last night, but she really isn't the type to dwell. She likes to pretend it's a good quality, this ability to move on, but deep down she knows she's just avoiding, pretending, repressing. It doesn't matter though; the result is the same. She's running. She's running and she's not crying and life goes on.

She turns on to her street, running past parked cars and a man walking a dog. He smiles at her and she smiles back absently but doesn't slow down. She reaches her townhouse all too soon and considers continuing on for a few more blocks, but her feet are killing her, and for the moment at least, the pain in her feet is overpowering the pain in her heart. She slows to a jog and then to a walk, reaching her doorstep just as she's about to collapse in exhaustion. She grabs the wrought iron railing and lowers herself carefully down onto the concrete step. She rests her forearms along her throbbing thighs, hangs her head and breathes deeply, greedily gulping air into her burning lungs. As her respiration slows, her stomach growls loudly, reminding her that in her rush to get out of the house she had neglected to have breakfast. She should do that now, she thinks. Hunger must be the cause of the odd feeling in her stomach that can't possibly be anticipation. She lifts her head and scans the familiar street in front of her, looking for what, she doesn't know. Nothing to see but houses and trees and cars. Shaking her head, she rises from the step, turns and enters her house, carefully avoiding looking at the mailbox.

* * *

He sits in his rental car, watching, waiting, thinking. He's across the street and three buildings down from the beige townhouse he believes to be hers. Now that he's come all this way, he's not sure he has the stones to get out of the car and ring her doorbell. It's too much, it's the wrong message, it's not _what he does_, damn it all to hell and back. At heart, he's a coward. He knows this, embraces it most of the time. But this time, this time, he needed to do _something_ and this is the thing he is doing.

But not yet.

He needs more information. For one insane moment he wishes his team were here so he could send them in first, have them scope the place out, gather intelligence, report back. Well, maybe not the whole team. The blonde one would probably head straight to her bedroom; he remembers the way he used to look at her.

He wonders if she's even home.

And then he wonders no longer, because suddenly there she is, running down the sidewalk towards him. He panics, thinking she's going to see him. He slides lower in his seat, but it's not necessary as a man walking a dog passes beside his car the same time she does, providing enough of a distraction that she fails to notice him. He sees her smile at the man with the dog and feels some vague stab of something he prefers not to examine. It's been so long since he's seen that smile. He continues to watch her in the rearview mirror as she crosses the street and slows to a walk when she reaches her yard. She strolls up to the front of the townhouse, but instead of going inside she sits down on the steps, leans on her knees and appears to be studying the ground in front of her. From the way her shoulders are heaving he can tell she is having trouble catching her breath. If he hadn't just seen her running down the street, he would think she was crying, which leads him to wonder how many times he's been responsible for her tears. Did she cry over him last night? _This was a bad idea_, he tells himself. She looks okay; she's out running, not hiding from the world or drowning her sorrows. He should go home, leave well enough alone. He doesn't want to be responsible for any more tears, and really, she looks okay.

As he watches, she looks up, scans the street, looking for what, he doesn't know. She glances in his direction and for a moment he thinks their eyes meet, but the moment passes, and she gets up and goes into the house.

He sighs to himself. He can't just leave, though part of him, maybe most of him, still thinks he should. He leans over and grabs his backpack from the floor of the passenger side. He unzips the front pocket, reaches in and pulls out a pen and paper and a bottle of pills.

* * *

Once inside she debates between a shower and food. The shower wins out as she can't stand being sweaty, but her rumbling stomach and sore feet ensure it's a quick one. She's walking back down the stairs, hair wet and clad in jeans and a scrub top, within fifteen minutes. She's padding barefoot toward the kitchen, craving coffee and carbs, when the sound of her doorbell breaks the silence. She's startled by the seldom heard sound, and puzzled by who it could be. She so rarely has visitors. She turns around, walks back to the entryway and pushes aside the curtains of the window alongside the door. There doesn't appear to be anyone there. She opens the door and steps outside on the doorstep, looking up and down the street, seeing nothing of interest. _Kids_, she shrugs, turning to go back inside. That's when she sees it, the corner of an envelope sticking out of her mailbox. Struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, she slowly lifts the cover of the mailbox and extracts the envelope. Not daring to look at it, she goes back inside, closes the door and leans up against it. She takes a deep breath and looks down at the envelope in her hand. It's completely blank, no stamp, no postmark, no address, no clue at all as to what it contains. Exhaling slowly, she slides her finger under the flap, all the while counseling herself to calm down, it's not from him, it's just not. She pulls out the note paper from its home and unfolds it, noting with growing excitement the familiar black scrawl. She reads:

_Allison,_

_I'm sorry. I'm a jerk. I know you deserve so much better than the likes of me, but can I come in anyway?_

_Greg_

She whirls around and throws open the door.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: I'd just like to take a moment to thank everyone who has commented so far. I really appreciate it :) The wait for this chapter was a little longer than I originally intended (damned RL), so I'm sorry for keeping you waiting!**_

**Letters from Home, Chapter 10**

She whirls around and throws open the door.

He's there. Standing on her doorstep in his brown leather coat and grey flat cap. Looking sheepish, she thinks for an instant, but that can't be right. She blinks, expecting the look on his face to transform into something more familiar, something more arrogant or maybe just more vacant, but the sheepish expression remains. Confused, she stands aside and waits for him to enter. As he walks past her and she stares at his back, understanding dawns. _He knows he went too far and now he's afraid he's lost something. But I can't stay in that little box he carved out for me, even if the box is in his heart. It's not big enough; I'll suffocate. _She steels herself for what she knows she must do.

He looks around, taking in his surroundings. Narrow hallway done in dark hardwood and off-white paint. Stairs to the right, living room to the left, kitchen visible though a doorway at the end of the hall. Spare, elegant and a bit old-fashioned – a great deal like her, actually. "Nice place you've got here," he says inanely. Small talk is not his strong suit.

"Small talk isn't your strong suit," she responds tightly. "Why are you here?"

Her tone doesn't go unnoticed. _I deserve that, but at least she let me in. Now fix this, damn it._ He looks down and taps his cane on the floor in front of him before looking back up and off to the side, unable to meet her eyes. He clears his throat. "So, ah, listen up because I'll probably only ever say this once. The letters did…do… mean something to me. We do have something. I don't know what, but something. You matter to me and I don't want this…" he waves his hand in the empty space between them, "…to end." He clears his throat again and looks back down at the floor, waiting for her to respond.

She says…nothing. Unable to wait quietly any longer, he chances a look at her. She's staring at the floor, looking…oh god that can't be good. Looking miserable? That's not right, damn it. She's supposed to be happy. This is what she wanted, isn't it? For him to want her? To talk about his damned _feelings_?

"Allison?" he prompts, somewhat impatiently.

"Don't call me that," she bites off, sounding firmer than she feels. She looks up at him again. The awkward, guilty look is gone now, she notes, replaced with something even more incomprehensible. Hurt? He's hurt? A tiny, vengeful girl inside of her thinks it looks good on him, but that inner bitch is quickly silenced and she starts to waver. After all, he's making an effort. He wouldn't have come all this way just to put her back in her box. Would he? Instantly, incontrovertibly, she knows that the answer to that question is yes. He would. She has to stay strong. He can't talk her into anything if she just doesn't talk.

Silence fills the room with awkwardness, then anxiousness, then hopelessness.

At last realizing that she isn't going to say anything else, he mutters, "This was a mistake. Forget I was here." He blows out a breath and turns to leave.

"Greg?"

He pauses, hand on the doorknob.

"Goodbye," she says, her voice cracking slightly.

"Goodbye Allison," he answers after a moment. He turns the doorknob and pulls open the door, a slight smile tugging at his lips. He doesn't look back as he closes the door behind him.

* * *

She hates herself. Really and truly hates herself. It's only been three hours since he left and already she knows she's made the biggest mistake of her life. Bigger even than the night she left him back in Princeton. At least then it was only herself she was hurting. He hadn't made any effort to keep her there, and really, even though she cared for him, she didn't know him that well back then.

Now, she knows him. Now, it's not all about her. She hurt him; she could see it in his eyes. This time, he was trying. Maybe he was just here out of fear, or for the challenge, or maybe he really was here for her. She doesn't know. How could she, she didn't even give him a chance.

She has to _do_ _something. This_ she knows.

Decision made, she rises from the sofa and rushes upstairs to her bedroom, simultaneously calling her boss to explain about a family emergency in New Jersey and throwing clothes and a toothbrush into an overnight bag. Within minutes she's rushing back down the stairs. She grabs her car keys and coat and slips on her shoes before hurrying out the door and down the stairs towards her car parked at the curb in front of her townhouse. She hopes there will be a seat on the next flight, she really doesn't want to drive, but she will if it'll be faster. She'll call around for a hotel room while she's en route. She's not even going to think about the possibility that she might not need one. Maybe if she's really lucky, he'll still be at the airport.

"Ready to talk now?" a gruff voice interrupts her frantic planning. She drops her keys as her head snaps up.

He tosses a baseball to the young boy standing a few feet away from him on the sidewalk and walks over to stand beside her. "Close your mouth Allison. I'm sure your uvula is cute as a button, but the whole world doesn't need to see it. Were you going somewhere?"

Ignoring his question, she stammers, "Why…what…why are you still here? I was…I was…"

Looking down at her, he interjects, "Kind of bitchy? It's okay; I get it. I was a prick to you on the phone; I took you by surprise by showing up here. I wouldn't blame you a bit if you wanted nothing more to do with me." He leans over until his lips are practically touching her ear and whispers, "But you do. Don't you?"

A shudder runs through her and she nods.

"Okay then, let's talk." He turns and limps back toward her townhouse. After a moment, she leans down, picks up her keys and follows.


	11. Chapter 11

**Letters from Home, Chapter 11**

"Got any liquor?" he tosses back over his shoulder as they climb the stairs to her townhouse.

"It's the middle of the afternoon," she informs the back of his head.

"And?"

And this conversation will be easier on both of us with a bit of liquid courage, she decides. "And I've got beer and I think some vodka."

"That's my girl," he responds and she secretly delights in his choice of words.

She drops her bag on the floor of the entryway and her keys on the table by the stairs. Toeing off her shoes, she gestures to the living room. "Um, you can sit in there while I get those drinks." She starts down the hall without waiting for an answer.

She enters the kitchen but instead of going to the fridge in search of beverages, she moves to stand in front of the sink. She grips the edge of the counter and stares unseeingly out the window. "Breathe, Allison. Breathe," she mutters. Her head is still spinning from his sudden reappearance. She can't believe he was waiting outside for her all this time. Though in retrospect, maybe she shouldn't be surprised that he didn't buy her cold-hearted act. He always did have that uncanny ability to see right through people's facades to their true motives. She was certainly no exception.

Two well-defined forearms appear suddenly to grip the counter on either side of her and his breath stirs her hair as he speaks. "You didn't ask me what I wanted to drink."

Her heart threatens to pound right through her chest wall, but she somehow manages to hide her response to his nearness. Her voice is steady as she replies, "I figured you'd prefer the beer." She turns around to face him and raises an eyebrow. "Was I wrong?"

He looks down at her, taking in the challenge issued by that arched brow and he wonders what she'd do if he kissed her senseless right here in her kitchen. He starts to lean in, but before he has the chance to find out, she's turning back around to face the sink and is opening up the cupboard to the right in search of a glass. Reluctantly he drops his arms from either side of her and says, "No, you weren't wrong. Vodka's for girls." He picks up his cane from where he'd hooked it over the back of a chair and limps back towards the living room.

"Good thing I am a girl then," she says turning back around, glass in hand, "because I'm having vodka and cranberry." She's surprised to find that she is once again alone in the room. _How does he do that?_

After a few minutes, she joins him on the couch with a large glass of well-diluted cranberry juice for herself and two open bottles of beer for him. He nods his thanks and picks up the nearest bottle, downing half of it in one long swallow.

In her absence, he has turned on her (pathetically small, in his unasked for opinion) television and tuned into a daytime drama. She reaches for the remote, intending to turn it off so they can talk. His large hand reaches out to cover her own. "Give me a minute, okay?" he mumbles.

She nods her understanding, leans back on the couch and tries to involve herself in the show, but all she can think about is her hand still trapped between the remote and his. His thumb lazily strokes the side of her smallest finger. He doesn't look at her.

* * *

An hour passes in silence, both of them taking the time to gather their thoughts and relearn how to relax in the other's company. She makes a couple of more trips to the kitchen, ostensibly to replenish their drinks, but also to regroup whenever she starts to feel herself sinking too far into his aura. She knows she has to learn to maintain her sense of self around him if this is ever going to work. He won't mean to take advantage, not at first anyway, but eventually he will if she lets him. She knows she can do it; it'll just take some practice, that's all.

The second time she returns to the living room with refills, the television is off and he is looking at her expectantly. _The floor is yours_, his expression says.

She sits back down beside him, setting the drinks on the table in front of them. "Did you mean what you said before...about there being something between us? Because I don't think I can go back to being your pen pal. Not now."

"If all I wanted was a pen pal, I'm sure there are prisoner outreach programs I could look in to." He smirks.

"Right, well then why did you say all the things you did on the phone?"

He picks up his beer and takes a drink before answering. After swallowing, he says, "Timing is everything, Allison. When you called, Wilson had just found one of your letters."

She opens her mouth, a horrified look on her face, but he holds a hand up to stop her from speaking. "It's okay, he didn't read it. He did, however, see that it was from you and he gave me a bit of a hard time about it."

"He didn't know we were in touch," she realizes, all at once feeling very insignificant. Wilson's his best friend. If he didn't know about her then..."You were keeping it a secret," she accuses. "You're...ashamed...of me?"

"No!" he practically shouts, before continuing in his normal tone of voice. "No. It wasn't like that at all. It wasn't a secret, but it was something I considered to be private – just between us, real but not quite real. Important...very important...but separate from the rest of my life."

He watches her carefully for a reaction. The fact that her normally expressive face is blank is a clue that he's fumbling this badly. Silently begging her to at least try to understand his point of view, he continues. "After he knew, and I tried to think about merging whatever was happening between us into my perpetually fucked up life...well, my immediate, visceral response was that I couldn't do that to you. You deserve a better life than what I can offer."

The blank look is gone, replaced with one of indignation. "Isn't what I do or do not deserve, my choice to make?" she demands.

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Yeah...yeah it is. And that's part of why I'm here. When Wilson was talking about the lovely young Dr. Cameron...suddenly you were no longer the strong woman I've come to know over the past year, but instead the naive young girl who used to work for me. A girl who, as I've since found out, never really existed at all, except in my own perceptions of you. You're all grown up and not nearly as naive as the image you used to project. And, well, I'm not really known for my altruism anyway. So, if you think you can handle me, that's your call. If you still want to that is.

She smiles. "I want to."

He lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding and smiles at her reflexively before leaning back and reaching for the remote again.

This time she's the one who covers his hand. "You said that was part of the reason you were here. What's the other part?"

"Oh...right. Almost forgot."

He turns over the hand that is on the remote and threads his fingers through hers. At the same time he turns toward her and reaches out his other hand to tangle in her long hair. Leaning closer he whispers, "This is the other reason," as he lowers his lips to hers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Letters from Home, Chapter 12 ~Epilogue~**

The sun is out for the first time in what seems like months and the snow is finally starting to melt, leaving piles of slush in the street. A car speeds down the busy street and dirty water sprays everywhere, nearly missing the pretty brunette jogger carefully making her way down the sidewalk.

_Step, step, step; one, two, three_, she counts in her head, as is her custom when nearing the end of a run. When she can see her building up ahead she puts on an extra burst of speed, anxious to be home. _Almost there. _

She reaches her destination and collapses on the front step, breathing heavily. She can see her breath clouding the air in front of her and the cold from the concrete step bites into the flesh of her thighs through her thin, nylon pants. Spring is coming, but it's still a little too cold and messy to run outdoors, for her taste anyway. She's considering buying a treadmill so next winter she can run inside for the cold months. She used to have one, back in another life, but sold it when she moved to a slightly more temperate area. Now she's moved again for the second time in as many years, and while she misses the warmer weather of her last residence, she has to admit that's about all she misses.

She's been back in Jersey for almost a month now and she still can't quite believe this is her life now. It's not all sunshine and roses, but really, she wouldn't want that anyway. If she was that kind of girl, she wouldn't have fallen for _him_ in the first place. But she did, and every morning when she wakes up, she holds her breath before opening her eyes, half convinced that instead of his (their) bedroom, she'll see her old room in that place she'd run to when she'd given up on him. So far it hasn't happened and if she's dreaming, well, it's a good dream for the most part and she wonders why she resisted making the move back for as long as she did.

And sometimes she wonders how things would have turned out if she'd never left in the first place. There's some regret there to be sure, but mostly she's convinced that they needed the time and physical distance in order to overcome their individual demons and achieve the emotional closeness they found through their letters. He's never really explained what prompted him to write that first little note to her, but she's so grateful that he did. She thinks he is too.

The first time he'd visited her, after a year of correspondence and one ill-timed phone call, he'd wanted her to come back with him right then and there. _This is real_, he'd insisted after the first time they'd made love. _Why wait?_ She hadn't had an answer for him, not one he could understand anyway; she only knew that if she let him dictate the course of their relationship, she'd end up losing some part of herself. In the end, when he hadn't been able to bully her into giving in, he'd gone back to Jersey without her and she thought for sure she'd lost him again.

She'd cried for a week, but, not for the first time, she hadn't been giving him enough credit. He'd turned up on her doorstep again the next weekend, an envelope of plane tickets in hand. _Every other weekend_, he'd told her, _you come to me. In between, I come to you. This is going to be an expensive relationship for awhile, but fortunately world-renowned diagnosticians are very well-paid. Whenever you're ready, we switch one of those return tickets for a one-way._

Her first visit to Jersey was like coming home and when she walked in to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital for the first time in almost two years, she thought she might drown from the memories. She stood in the lobby and let them wash over her. Her job interview with her future employer in which he'd barely said a word until the - _you start Monday; don't be late_ - at the end. Her first day, their first case, and the first time they'd lost a patient. The day she'd discovered his reason for hiring her – _you are extremely pretty_. The day she knew she'd love him forever, and the day she knew she had to leave.

She'd shaken her head to clear the memories and followed a familiar path to his office. Her former co-workers were surprised and happy to see her and their chins hit the floor when their cantankerous boss greeted her with a smile and a kiss. His best friend watched from the doorway with a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face.

It had taken her three months and several more visits to decide he was right about her moving back. What they had was real and there was no reason to wait any longer. She'd quit her job and applied for several positions at various hospitals near his home. But not at _his_ hospital and not in _his_ department, which was the beginning of another standoff between them. _I can't be your subordinate at work and your equal at home_, she'd tried to explain. _And besides, you can't just start firing people to make room for me._ Despite his insistence that he damned well could, she'd held firm and accepted a position in immunology at a hospital across town.

It didn't keep her from informally consulting on his cases in the evenings, and he hadn't given up on trying to convince her to come back and work by his side. She figures she'll give in eventually, but not until she has the experience required to come back as something closer to his equal. She's knows she's not there yet.

The sound of the door opening behind her brings her back to the present and her lover pokes his head out.

"What the hell are you doing out there?" he asks. "Get in here before you freeze your stunning little ass off." The door closes again before she can respond. Smiling to herself at his brusqueness, she gets up and goes in. She's happy to be home.

The End.

_A/N: Well there you have it, folks. I hope you enjoyed the ride. The response I've gotten to this fic has been truly overwhelming and I thank each and every one of you! ~E._


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